October's Child
by AlarminglyOften
Summary: Opal isn't crazy. Just because she hears people's thoughts, that doesn't mean she's crazy. And the murders... well, everyone has bad days. The most important thing is that she isn't crazy. Until she meets him.
1. October's Child is Born for Woe

It was safe to say Opal was having a bad day. She'd had raging migraines on and off for about a week and all she wanted to do was sleep. But she couldn't sleep when there was housework to do: scrubbing and cleaning and cooking, laundry, dusting, bleaching, and probably a dozen other things she'd forgotten.

For a man who didn't even know how to switch on the vacuum cleaner, Uncle Ron certainly had high standards when it came to the state of his apartment, and for a woman who certainly knew how to switch on the vacuum cleaner, Aunt Sue did so with alarming irregularity. And so it all fell to Opal who, as her Aunt and Uncle regularly pointed out, owed them anyway. She had, after all, ruined their lives by being born to drug-addicted parents and consequentially being dumped on Ron and Sue by CPS. Or something like that.

So Opal cooked and cleaned and worked evenings and weekends at the grocery store around the corner. Opal's store discount was the only reason her Aunt and Uncle hadn't thrown her out the day she turned eighteen. Being informed of that fact had been the closest thing Opal had gotten to birthday wishes this year.

Opal sighed. She was going to need more bleach if she wanted to fully remove the blood stains from the hideous, textured wallpaper. The rug was a lost cause, she'd decided.

She shook out her aching arm, wondering if scrubber's elbow was a thing, and went to see if there was another bottle of the good stuff under the kitchen sink.

Sometimes she thought she should change her name to Cinder-fucking-ella. Not that she got much in the way of fucking these days. Maybe she'd have more free time now? She could start dating. Bring guys back to this crappy apartment and tell them not to mind the blood stains.

She chuckled to herself at the though as she grabbed the spare bottle of bleach, stepping over the body of her aunt, lying prone on the kitchen floor. She thanked God her aunt had forced Uncle Ron to use his most recent tax return to replace the peeling linoleum with honest-to-God tiles. It would make the clean-up much easier.

These walls though… maybe she could peel the wallpaper off? She could give the whole apartment a fresh coat of paint, really spruce the place up. Opal sat herself on the sofa, abandoning her scrubbing for now. If she stretched out her legs, she could rest them on her uncle's rather generous stomach. He looked quite ridiculous, stretched out, pale and twisted, on the red-soaked rug.

Opal contemplated one of the few patches of rug still retaining its original colour. She remembered lying on it to do her homework as a child; driving toy cars over the thread-bare humps and bumps; picking and pulling at threads, getting a good lecture and a sharp slap for her trouble. She'd always hated that fucking rug.

Oh well, out with the old, in with the new. She should try to be positive.

Look at the silver lining attached to the corpses of her only remaining family.

She rubbed her eyes, noticing that her hands came away speckled with flecks of red. Oh. Had she not washed her face since? She looked down at herself and was startled to realize that her entire shirt was stained red, crusting where the blood had dried. Her bare legs, clad only in her ratty sleeping shorts were also speckled copiously with red. She looked like she'd showered in hell.

Opal went to step over her uncle, planning to take a shower before getting back to cleaning, but stopped as her foot sunk into the blood-saturated rug. She felt it squelch beneath her toes, as rivulets of liquid spread onto the wooden floors.

Opal sat back down on the sofa, deciding that she didn't really need to shower right now anyway. Besides, there was rarely any hot water. She watched as the blood formed living veins on the scuffed floor and absently hoped that it wouldn't drip through the floorboards to the apartment below. Poor Mrs. Emory had just put in new cream carpets and Opal would feel terrible if they got stained.

Opal felt the booming in her head return as she stared blankly at the floor. Heaving an empty sigh, she reached over to flick off the switch on the lamp sat next to the sofa, plunging the room into darkness, despite the opened curtains. She hadn't realized it was so late. Opal curled up, hugging her knees to herself and buried her face deeply into the cushions of the sofa. She inhaled deeply, until the musty smell of the sofa began to overwhelm the heady scent of bleach and copper, drifting into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Opal woke to a sharp rapping on the apartment door. "Mr. Raskino? Mr. Raskino!"

A weak, early light was filtering through the open window and Opal blinked at it owlishly.

"Mr. Raskino!"

It was the landlord, she realized. They didn't usually have problems with him, as Uncle Ron always paid the rent on time and the family was generally quiet and respectful. Opal wondered what was wrong, slowly unfolding herself from the sofa, cracking her aching body, and cautiously approaching the door.

"What's wrong Mr. Gargiullo?" She asked through the locked door.

"Opal, is your uncle in? Open the door," he demanded. Opal complied, slowly proceeding through the five locks her aunt had insisted Uncle Ron install last year, after the Wozniaks down the hall had been burgled.

She slowly opened the door, peering curiously at the agitated Mr. Gargiullo, clad in his striped pajamas. He flinched back at the sight of her.

Oh. Yes. She hadn't showered. Also, she'd murdered her entire family.

Opal distantly considered that opening the door probably hadn't been a good idea, but couldn't bring herself to feel actual dismay. She couldn't feel much of anything to be honest.

"Opal? Are you hurt? What happened? Where are your aunt and uncle?" Mr. Gargiullo gabbled, his normally deep voice unusually high. He grabbed her by the shoulders, peering up and down, as though trying to find the source of her bleeding.

Opal was surprised the neighbours hadn't woken yet and suddenly felt guilty. The Almasis had three-month old twins; the poor couple were in a constant state of near-exhaustion. She didn't want to deny them what little sleep they were able to get.

"Come inside, Mr. Gargiullo," she ushered him in, quickly pulling the door shut behind him. The poor man, bewildered and obviously still half in the sleep he'd been dragged from, followed her wordlessly.

"Opal. You are hurt. I must call an ambulance." Opal noted that his Italian accent became particularly strong when he was distressed. It was quite charming.

"Opal. Do you hear me? Where is your phone?"

He stepped around her, suddenly stopping, letting out a noise somewhere between a whine and bark as his eyes fell on the pale body of her uncle. He seemed to waver for a moment, almost as if he would fall over. Opal gently took his arm and guided him to Uncle Ron's arm chair. Mr. Gargiullo sank into it wordlessly.

"Opal?" He sounded like a different man. "Opal, was there a break-in? Where is your aunt? You're hurt. I must call an ambulance." He moved to get up, but stopped as his body convulsed, emptying last night's dinners onto his quilted slippers.

"There, there, Mr. Gargiullo," Opal comforted, patting him on the arm. "Get it all out." She tried not to be annoyed as the vomit was added to her cleaning list. Some people just had weak stomachs, she told herself.

"Would you like a glass of water Mr. Gargiullo?" She asked, trying to be helpful.

Her fingers ran absently over the soapstone statuette sat on the side table next to the armchair. Uncle Ron had bought it back from a trip to Canada years ago; it was a beautiful grey colour, carved into the shape of a magnificent, proud bear. Opal had always loved the smooth feel of it, sneaking touches whenever Aunt Sue wasn't home to slap her hands away.

It was chipped now, half the head caved in and an entire leg missing; the grey had been stained a deep red.

"Opal…" Mr. Gargiullo looked up at her, his voice raw and scratchy. She stared into his eyes. They were a nice hazel, she mused.

"Opal, what have you done?"

 _Crazy. God. Why. Blood. Why?_

He spoke without moving his mouth, as people sometimes did when they looked at Opal. The words rang in her head uncomfortably, like the vibrations of a bell.

Opal lifted the bear off the table, feeling the smooth weight in her hand. "Say hello to Mrs. Gargiullo for me, won't you?"

She smashed the bear into the back of his head, feeling more than hearing the brutal crack of his skull. She hit him a few times more for good measure, though it wasn't really necessary. She'd had always had a strong arm. All that scrubbing.

Mr. Gargiullo's lifeless body slumped in the arm chair, blood seeping into the upholstery, dying the yellow chintz a rather beautiful wine-red.

The smell in the apartment was almost overwhelming at this point and Opal's headache had returned at full-force, the rattling feeling in her brain setting her teeth on edge. A little fresh air would help, she decided, making sure to avoid the soaked rug as she stepped past her uncle to open the window.

She gulped in the fresh air, admiring the red-ish sunrise staining the sky. Such a pretty colour. It was poetic, really. The sun gave life to the earth, just as blood had given life to Mr. Gargiullo.

One day the sun would explode, swallowing the earth whole. The circle of life. Death. Something like that.

* * *

Opal wasn't sure how long she sat at the window before the banging on the door began again.

"GCPD. OPEN UP." The voice was clearly agitated, yelling quite loudly. Opal hoped the Almasis were already up; they really did need their sleep.

"GCPD. OPEN UP. We have reports of blood leaking into the apartment below. I need you to open up RIGHT NOW." The banging on the door kept getting louder. Opal wondered if the door might break. The construction standards in this building weren't particularly high.

Mr. Gargiullo must have the spare keys, she realized. They would have to break the door down to get in.

Opal slid down to sit on the floor beneath the window, stretching out her legs and running her feet over the sodden rug. Patches of blood had started to dry, rusty coloured and flaky, but other patches were still thoroughly soaked. Opal put her hands over her ears, humming loudly to drown out the banging.

The crash of the door breaking in was almost deafening. The doorframe splintering away from the wall, at the force of the metal garbage can they'd used as a battering ram. Four police officers stormed into the room, guns drawn.

Opal raised her head to look at them, slowly holding out her hands to show she wasn't armed.

The officers looked, alarmed, at the bodies. Two quickly moved towards the bedrooms, backs against the wall; another moved towards the kitchen.

"Is there anyone else here?" the remaining cop asked her brusquely, eyes roaming the room.

Opal shook her head. "No."

"Another body in here," one of the cops called out.

"Clear," one yelled.

"Fuck," another yelled.

The cop who had remained, her cop, moved closer to her, gun still raised. "Stand up."

She did and waited while his eyes roamed her bloody figure. The other three cops had returned to the living room, one on his radio, barking out a series of orders. "Fuck" one of them said.

Opal caught his eyes and the vibrations in her head returned. _Fuck. God. Sick. Why?_

Her cop kept his gun trained on her, while the other, not radio-cop or eyes-cop, moved forward cautiously with a set of cuffs in his hand.

"Turn around," other-cop barked at her. Opal complied, facing the window again and smiling at the feeling of the sun on her face. Other-cop slammed her harshly into the wall next to the window, fastening the cuffs far too tightly around her wrists, repeating the lines she knew almost by-heart. Was this real-life or had she slipped into the TV set?

Some of the neighbours were in the hallway as she was dragged out. Mrs. Almasi peaked around her door, a baby in each arm.

Mrs. Emory was standing by the elevator, rosary in hand, pale as a corpse.

"Sorry about your carpet," Opal told her, as radio-cop shoved her into the elevator.

"Good-bye home," she whispered to herself as the doors closed.

* * *

Opal had never been to jail. She'd never even been to the Principal's office.

She'd never been one to cause trouble. She cleaned her room, did her (many, many) chores, listened to the teacher, handed in her homework on time; she always said her pleases and thank-yous and never arrived late if she could help it.

Any discontent or anger, any cruel thoughts, any mean jokes, they were all kept locked away in her head where she alone could enjoy them.

She was a nice girl.

And yet here she was, locked in a jail-cell. They'd stripped her of her blood-stained clothing, placing it in a bag labelled evidence. She was currently wearing a loose, vaguely itchy, beige shirt and pants; they looked a bit like scrubs and Opal though, if the material-quality was better, they might have been quite comfortable. But it wasn't better and she was itchy, which was making her quite irritable.

She'd been checked over by a medical examiner on arrival, who'd washed the worst of the blood off her skin after taking photos of the splattering. He'd refused to give her a pain-killer for her headache though, and at this point Opal just wanted to sleep for a thousand years. That wasn't really possible when you were locked in a cell with five other criminals, though.

'Other criminals.' It was a strange thing to think. She was a criminal now.

A woman sitting on the other side of the cell was dressed in thigh-high boots and a flimsy skin-tight dress. Opal was a little annoyed that she was the only one forced to wear this beige monstrosity.

The woman noticed Opal staring and turned to wink at her. "What you in for sweet cheeks?"

"Murder." Opal replied.

The woman's eyes widened slightly and she looked Opal up and down, as though seeing her in a new light. "Uh huh," she murmured, turning away to look out of the bars, avoiding Opal's eyes.

Opal shrugged. She wasn't in the mood to talk anyway.

Looking around further, she caught one of the cops watching her through the bars. He was young, she though, barely older than her. Opal caught his eyes and stared.

 _Fucking crazy bitch. Murdered family. Sick. Freak. Crazy._

She growled. "Fuck off, I can fucking hear you! Leave me alone!"

The cop flinched and turned away from her.

She turned back to see her cell-mates staring at her. She gave them a wild look. "Fuck you all too. I'm not crazy! I'M NOT!"

* * *

It turned out she was crazy. Or at least in the eyes of the State she was.

They'd deemed her not guilty by way of insanity. Opal had rolled with it. The meds they had her on were ever-changing and left her feeling either blank and empty or so full of rushing, screaming blood that she wanted to rip her skin open to let it out. She wasn't in much of a state to dispute her sanity, or lack thereof.

They threw words out like confetti: schizoaffective, borderline, trauma, depersonalization, paranoia. A never-ending list of ever-changing diagnoses and half-diagnoses. It never seemed to occur to anyone that she just _wasn't crazy._

And it was all because she sometimes heard people's thoughts. How was that any different to prophets who heard God speaking? The only difference was, rather than wisdom and guidance, she got mundane babble and vicious insults. And it was _always_ one or the other, if not both.

If she met someone with an original though, Opal thought she might just cry from happiness.

And yeah, maybe the murders she hadn't been able to provide a motive for had something to do with the "crazy" thing. But people acted like she was the first person in the world to have a bad day; the first person to make a mistake.

What was the point of being good your whole life if it didn't balance out the occasional bad act?

But here she was, on her way to Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. And now the Criminally-Not-So-Insane, apparently.

Technically, having been found not guilty, Opal had a chance of release. If she could convince the powers that be that she'd been cured and posed no danger to society, she could be a free woman. Technically.

In reality, everyone knew there was only way out of Arkham Asylum: in a body-bag. And if everything she'd heard about Arkham was true, that body-bag might be her only salvation.


	2. A Penny for Your Thoughts

Arkham wasn't quite as bad as she'd imagined, in that it wasn't a _literal_ torture chamber.

But on a scale of the bathroom from Saw to Disneyland, she'd probably rate it at just below the bathroom, on account of the sheer fucking boredom.

Opal had been placed in the medium security wing when she'd first arrived. Some crazy chick with a shaved head had threatened her with the forcible removal of her tongue on the first day. _That_ had at least been interesting.

But the women's section of medium was severely over-subscribed. So, Opal, along with a handful of others deemed to be "compliant," (i.e. they were yet to have assaulted a guard) were dumped into minimum. Most of the inmates (Opal had been told by her therapist to call them "patients," but she disagreed with that assessment) were here on minor assault charges, break and enter, theft; all the boring shit.

You'd think a place full of crazies would have a little more going on, but they were all so doped out on a cocktail of tricyclics and psychotropics that it was like living in a colony of zombies, minus the excitement of potential cannibalism.

She'd actually started to miss her old job at the grocery store. The mind-numbing boredom of ringing through groceries became a dream of colours and sounds and _people._ Actual _real_ people wearing actual _real_ non-orange jumpsuit clothing.

Opal felt alive for the first time in years. She _felt_ things, she _wanted_ things. That cloudy haze she had lived in for a decade had cleared. And just when she should be out there, _exploring,_ she'd found herself trapped in concrete box. She felt suffocated.

"You know the worst thing?" Her cellmate Miriam asked, half of her body hanging off the top bunk, her wild hair swaying. "Knowing that I'll never get laid again, you know? Like, I'm in my prime and here I am in a fucking orange jumpsuit, in severe need of a wax."

Opal hummed in agreement, laying back on the bottom bunk, hands behind her head. Miriam had been transferred from medium at the same time. She was the only thing keeping Opal sane.

Miriam had been the one to show Opal how to avoid zombification. They would take their pills, swallowing them like good little girls, opening their mouths to show the nurse. Then they would return to their cell, to the not-so-shiny metal toilet hidden behind a half-wall, and stick their fingers down their throats. It had become a daily sort-of-bonding session now. Opal never got it all out and she could almost feel the drugs swimming through her blood like parasites. But it was better than nothing.

"I just hope Rory waits for me, you know," Miriam said.

 _Forever?_ Opal wanted to ask. "I'm sure he will," she said, nicely. Opal liked to think she was a nice person.

 _Yeah, he'll wait._ She though. _But only because he's too traumatized by the fact that you kidnapped him and held him hostage for over a year to touch another woman._

"Thanks," Miriam replied, jumping down from her bunk. She shoved Opal to the side of her bed, curling up next to her. "I'm glad we're friends."

Opal nodded. "Me too."

* * *

One of the few benefits of minimum was the relative freedom. The "patients" ate their meals all together in the canteen with no need for shifts and they got time in the Rec Room _every_ day. Once a week they were allowed out to the yard to wander the cracked paving stones. Opal, who missed her morning runs with Aunt Sue, had taken to jogging laps around the yard with a couple of the other less-zombified women. As long as there was no contact, and they didn't break into a sprint, the guards didn't mind.

She lived for those moments outside, when she could feel the sun on her face and the breeze in her hair. So when, one Tuesday, outdoor time was cancelled, Opal was _not_ happy.

It was right after breakfast and Opal had been bouncing on her feet, ready for her dose of fresh-air. Then the PA system had crackled to life, and they were all being ordered back to their cells. Arkham was on lock-down.

The zombies were excited for once. Had there been a break-out? A riot in another wing?

But they got no word; the guards remained tight-lipped, and by evening everyone was back in the canteen eating dinner as normal.

Opal was informed that outdoor-time would not be rescheduled.

It wasn't until a week later, when Opal overheard two guard furiously whispering, that she found out it had all been the fault of the Batman, who had dropped by with an unexpected and most undesired gift.

* * *

Opal was dragged roughly into the therapy room by one of the meaner guards. She glared at him, trying and failing to pull her arm out of his iron grip. He curled his lip at her, dumping her in the metal chair that sat, bolted to the floor, on one side of a cold metal table.

Her therapist, Dr. Byrne, looked up from the files in front of him, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. His chair sat on the side of the table closest to the door. Safety precautions.

Despite that, therapy was actually much more relaxed in minimum; they didn't even have her cuffed.

Dr. Byrne nodded at the guard. "That'll be all, Wyler." The guard moved to stand outside the door, shutting it behind him. There was a window in the door, so the guard could keep an eye out, and Opal knew for a fact that Dr. Byrne had a panic button under the table. A little bit of trust, but not too much.

"All right Opal, how have you been this week?" The Doctor asked.

Opal shrugged. "As good as one can be when locked in a loony bin."

"We prefer the term "Asylum," Opal," he smiled benignly, shuffling through his papers.

"But it is a loony bin," she said.

"Yes, but we don't call it that," he told her, with that same placid smile.

"Okay," he shuffled his papers some more, "now, we've spent the last couple of weeks on intake."

By which he meant ridiculous puzzles, tests, _what do you feel when you look at this shape_? Opal rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, that wasn't a waste of time at all."

"Now, Opal, there is a method to the madness here." She got the distinct feeling that he was mocking her. "I think we should focus on getting to know each other a little better today."

He picked up a mug from behind his pile of files, taking a sip. It was white, with black writing stretched around it, reading _You don't have to be mad to work her, but it helps!_

Opal narrowed her eyes at him.

"Now, Opal, why don't we talk about the events that brought you to Arkham," Dr. Byrne suggested.

"Nah," Opal responded, refusing to look at him. She picked at a thread on her orange jumpsuit. Orange really was not her colour; it clashed horribly with her hair and washed her out something terrible.

It was a good thing that Dr. Byrne, fifty something and balding, was not the slightest bit attractive, or she might have felt self-conscious.

The Doctor stared at her, waiting for her to break the silence. Opal smirked to herself. He'd be waiting a while.

If Opal ever needed a resume again, she'd probably add 'maintaining awkward silences' under the skills section.

It was quite sad that this was what it had come to. Now, she got her thrills from mildly antagonising someone who was paid to be here, whether she spoke or not. Talk about a fucking demotion.

The Doctor sighed and Opal felt a swell of pride, as if she'd just won a particularly tricky game of chess.

"Okay, lets talk about something else."

"Nah," Opal responded again, smirking.

"I'm alarmed by your lack of cooperation, Opal," he said, sternly. "Perhaps we need to up the dosage of your medication. Your current dosage does not seem to be effective."

Opal flinched and shot a glare at him. She did _not_ want more of those damn meds.

The Doctor threw his own smirk back at her. He knew he'd won.

So much for 'being there to help.' Arkham was a fucking cesspool, no reason it's Doctors would be any different. Something about looking into the abyss, probably.

"Lets talk about your childhood. Before you lived with your aunt and uncle."

Opal opened her mouth to reject his suggestion, but he held up a hand. "Now, Opal, I really do require compliance." The threat in his tone was more than implied.

Opal gazed at the table, defeated.

"Now, you were eight years old when you went to live with your aunt and uncle. And before that you lived with your mother and father, correct?"

Opal nodded.

"Do you remember much about it?" He asked.

Opal refused to meet his eyes, going back to picking at the thread on her jumpsuit. "Bits. I was young."

"Tell me what it was like." He took a sip from that stupid mug.

"Nice," Opal said, softly.

"Nice? Nice how?" He sounded disbelieving and that annoyed Opal.

"We were happy. It wasn't some perfect TV family, but we were happy."

The Doctor nodded, jotting down a note. Opal narrowed her eyes, wanting to know what he had written.

"Tell me about your mother."

Opal couldn't help the smile that found its way to her face. "She was beautiful. She had this long, red hair…"

"Like yours?" the Doctor interrupted.

Opal glared at him. "Much longer. All the way down to her hips. Aunt Sue would never let me have mine that long. Hers was curlier too. She put flowers in it sometimes, or beads." Opal wistfully twirled a piece of her own red hair, which barely reached her waist, between her fingers.

"What else do you remember about her?" the Doctor asked.

Opal relaxed in her chair. "She used to sing a lot and she liked dancing. We used to dance together in the kitchen all the time. Daddy would watch us sometimes."

He nodded, making more notes in his pad. "Tell me about your father."

Opal pulled at the thread on her jumpsuit.

"He was really tall and his stubble was scratchy when he kissed me. He used to read me stories at night." She smiled at the memory of them curled up on the dingy mattress. She'd never really listened to the stories, she'd just liked to hear his voice.

"Sometimes he'd crawl around the apartment on his hands and his knees and let me ride on his back like he was a horse. Mom thought it was the funniest thing. She'd laugh for hours."

'Your parents, were they good to you?" He asked.

Opal narrowed her eyes at the insinuation. "They loved me," she bit out.

The Doctor nodded. "And how was their relationship with each other?"

Opal smiled, remembering the stories her mom had told her. "They met when mom was fifteen and dad was seventeen. They ran away together to get married. Dad protected mom and she took care of him. They loved each other so much, I don't think they could have lived apart. They were soulmates."

"Did they ever fight?" He pushed.

Opal frowned. Why was no one ever content with happy memories? People always wanted a fucking tragedy. She glared at him.

"Sometimes, yeah. What couple doesn't?"

He picked up one of the files sitting on the desk. "I have multiple incident reports on file. Domestic disputes. Sometimes as often as twice a week." He locked eyes with her and Opal looked away. "Most of the calls were made by neighbours, but a few were made by your mother. She never pressed charges."

Opal shrugged. "So?"

"That doesn't sound like a happy, loving home to me."

"What would you know about that?" She spat out, with a pointed glare at his ring-less left hand.

The Doctor gave her a tight smile, repositioning himself in his seat. "I'm here to help you, Opal, but I can only do that if you're honest with me." The threat hung in the air.

She growled, sinking into her seat. "It doesn't mean they didn't love each other. True love isn't nice and safe and sweet. True love is laying yourself open for someone. It's blood screaming inside you. It's need and passion and madness."

"You truly believe that?" He gave her a look of pity that made her want to rip his heart out of his chest. "I think we'll return to discuss this later." He shuffled his papers again. "Back to your parents."

Opal closed her eyes.

"Did you parents ever hurt you?" He asked.

"No," she bit out, harshly, her eyes flying open again. _How dare he? How dare he?_

"They _loved_ me. They took care of me."

"Okay," he said. Opal didn't get the impression he meant it.

He opened another file. "Your parents were drug users," he stated.

Opal ground her teeth, her jaw tightening. Always the fucking tragedy. Why were people so averse to a happy ending?

She didn't respond.

"The information I have says they primarily abused heroin, but several other drugs were also found in their apartment. Would you say that is correct?"

Her whole body was tense now, every muscle screaming. "Yeah, they did drugs. Heroin. Other shit too. It made them happy. That doesn't mean they were bad parents." She was sounding increasingly aggressive, she realized.

"Of course not," he responded gently, "as you said, they loved you."

Opal wanted to punch him, smash his stupid, smarmy, patronizing face into the ground.

"What were your parents like when they were high?"

Opal pulled harshly at the thread on her jumpsuit, tearing it away. She wound the orange thread tightly around her finger, watching it turn a purplish-red.

"They were happy. They'd lie around, not do much. We'd cuddle sometimes."

"And when they were like this, were they able to take care of you?" He asked. She didn't respond. He pushed. "Did they cook, clean, put you to bed?"

Opal closed her eyes and started counting to ten. She gave up at three, opening her eyes with a deep breath.

"I could do it myself. I wasn't stupid. They took care of me the rest of the time, so it was only fair I helped out when I could."

He nodded, scribbling in his pad. Opal wanted to rip out the page and stuff it down his throat. Watch him choke, his eyes bulge, his face turn purple. She grinned at thought.

He looked up and paled slightly. Opal's grin spread wider.

She stretched in her chair, enjoying the slight shift in the power dynamic. It was nice to be the one scaring rather than the one who was scared.

The Doctor cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "Did you go to school back then? The records are a little patchy in that regard."

She shrugged her shoulders. "A few. I don't remember them much. Dad took me out when I was seven. I was homeschooled after that."

"Why did he take you out of school?" The Doctor leaned forward, looking interested.

"This teacher kept causing trouble." Opal kicked her legs under the chair. She didn't even remember the bitch's name. She remembered that hideous flowery skirt though. Like the bitch had forgotten to do laundry and had just wrapped a curtain around her legs instead. Opal curled her lip at the memory.

He looked interested at her change in attitude. "And what did this teacher do?"

Opal clenched her jaw, digging her nails deeply into the palm of her hand. "She reported my parents, said they weren't taking care of me. Just 'cause I had dirty clothes sometimes or I didn't wash my face. Like it even matters."

He nodded. "And what happened then?" As if he didn't know.

She felt the deep ache overcome her. "They took me away," she whispered.

The Doctor nodded. "Yes. You went to live with your aunt and uncle for three months before returning to your parents, correct?"

Opal didn't know why he stated everything as a question when he obviously already had all the answers. "Yeah," she said. "They let me go back, cus mom and dad got clean."

"What was it like when you went back? Was it better?" He asked.

"No," she replied. "It was worse. They were unhappy. I was glad when they started using again."

He nodded, jotting something down. Opal took a deep breath.

"And when they started using again, did things go back to how they were before?"

Opal pulled at the ends of her hair, enjoying the distraction of the sharp pain in her scalp. "Yeah, except I kept the apartment clean. And myself. So they wouldn't take me away again. I'd scrub a lot, and dust, and do laundry and stuff."

"And how did that make you feel?" He asked.

Opal shrugged, confused. "It didn't make me feel anything."

"You never felt sad that you had to do this for your parents? Did you ever wish that they would be like regular parents, that they would take care of _you_?"

"No. That's just how things were. I didn't mind as long as I was with them."

He nodded again, like he understood. Opal fucking hated that. She was sure that no one in the world understood less than he did.

"Lets talk about your mother again. Were you aware of her work?"

Opal shrugged. "I don't want talk about this."

"Opal," he said, warningly, "I know this is hard, but for these sessions to work, I need you to be open with me."

She imagined what it would be like to slice him open. _Slowly, slowly._ She'd peel him like fucking apple.

She looked up and gave him a grin that was more teeth than any smile should have. He shuffled his papers again.

"Opal…"

"Yeah, I knew what she did." Opal carefully kept her voice void of emotion. "Men came to the apartment with money, they left with a grin. I was a kid, not fucking stupid. I knew what she was doing."

"So it took place at the apartment and you were there. Where was your father?" Ah, something that wasn't in his fucking files. She felt a strange satisfaction at that.

"He was there too. That's why she did it at the apartment. It was safer. Dad made her keep a gun under the bed as well, just in case. He worried about her."

He nodded. "And where would you be, while your mother was with these men?"

"In the other room." She tapped her fingers on the table. "I'd play games with dad, or he'd read to me. It was nice, to have that time together." She smiled.

"How did it make you feel? That your mother was in the next room with another man."

 _Breathe_ , she told herself. "It didn't make me feel anything."

"Alright." He sounded disbelieving. "Can we talk about, um…" he shuffled through his notes, looking for something. "Ah, Thanksgiving Day. The year you turned eight."

Opal clenched her jaw tight enough that she thought it might crack. Her whole body was shaking, she realized.

"Opal?" His voice sounded distant.

She looked up at him.

 _Pathetic,_ his eyes said. _Crazy. Delusional. Weak._

She launched herself across the table at him, her hands moving faster than she could process. She tasted flesh. Maybe _she_ was the real zombie.

It couldn't have been more than moments before the guards pulled her off him, but for Opal it could have been a century. She felt lost in time.

She was shoved violently to the floor, her face crushed against the concrete. She wasn't sure if the blood she tasted was his or her own. She was cuffed tightly. _Deja vu much?_

They were yelling, hands were pulling and pushing at her. Someone was screaming. Opal just smiled, feeling that beautiful peace descend over her.

She saw his body for little more than a second before she was pulled roughly from the room. But that second was all it took to burn the image into her brain. The pool of blood, dripping from his torn throat, bloody holes where his eyes had been. Dr. Byrne had _definitely_ left the building.

"Pretty," she whispered to herself, as she was dragged away.


	3. Heaven Sent

Opal wasn't sure how many days she'd spent in Solitary. The padded cell had started to feel like home. Wrapped in the straightjacket, she'd forgotten what it felt like to have arms.

That might've been the drugs though. _Needles. Needles. Needles_. She was full of holes. If she drank a glass of water, it would come pouring straight out, she thought.

Water sounded so _good_ right now.

Her whole body ached. Her face was swollen from where she'd been shoved against floors and walls. At one point, she'd been slammed head-first into a metal doorframe. Her lip was split, and she was pretty sure she had two black eyes, though she lacked any reflective surfaces with which to confirm her suspicions.

The possibility of brain damage was comforting, at least. Maybe she'd just slip into a coma.

Opal squirmed on the padded floor, wondered if they'd keep her in here forever. All for one measly psych. Like they didn't have enough to spare.

She turned onto her side, rubbing her aching face into the stained padding of the floor. She didn't want to think about the origin of those stains, so she just didn't. Drugs were great that way. No wonder her parents had been so into them.

Opal was roused from her contemplation of a particularly large brown-red stain when the door to her cell slammed open. Stokes, the only guard Opal was truly scared of, entered the room; he loomed over her, all six foot five and broad shouldered. He could probably crush her with a single, massive hand.

Next to him was Pike, one of the nicer guards. Nice being relative of course. Pike had never hit her, though, so she kind of liked him.

She smiled up at them weakly from where she lay on the floor.

"Wow, visitors. Is it my birthday?"

"Shut your fucking mouth," Stokes spat at her.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her to her feet. Opal wobbled, almost falling to the ground, before Pike placed a steadying hand on her back. She smiled at him.

"You're being transferred to the max wing," Pike told her.

 _Oh_. She'd kind of seen this coming, what with murdering a staff member. But, still… _max._ She'd be playing with the big kids now.

Opal suddenly wished she was a little taller. Five foot three wasn't very intimidating, she realized.

She held back a whimper of pain as Stokes manhandled her, pushing her against a padded wall. "You cause any fucking trouble and I'll break your fucking spine. Got it?" He spat at her.

 _God._ Had him and Byrne been lovers or something? He was taking this whole thing awfully seriously.

"I'll be good," she choked out, her voice muffled by the padding.

Stokes released her, attaching a chain to her straightjacket, securing her to him. Like she'd be able to run anywhere, anyway.

She raised an eyebrow at Pike, as if to say _what's his fucking problem?_

Pike shook his head, sandy curls bouncing, attempting to hide the ghost of a smile on his face. He grabbed her other arm, more gently than Stokes, and the two guards marched her out of the cell into the grey-on-grey-on-grey of the hallway.

* * *

The walk from solitary to max wasn't too long. Opal imagined that was by design.

The journey itself was nothing more than a series of grey painted hallways, with grey floors and grey doors. No windows in sight. Still, it was better than padded, white walls and she drank it in as if it was a sunset, revelling in every detail, every scuff mark on the wall, every fire extinguisher, every crack in the floor.

Stokes stopped in front of a grey door and turned to give her a cruel smile. "Open the door," he barked at Pike.

"Boss said straight to max," Pike said nervously. Opal obviously wasn't the only one afraid of Stokes.

"Did that sound like a fucking question, Pike," Stokes barked back. Opal shivered, looking to Pike, who was avoiding her eyes.

Pike heaved a sigh, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket. He selected a heavy bronze one, fitting it in the keyhole and turning it with a click that sent chills down Opal's spine. He held the door open, looking at Stokes as if to say _is this what you wanted?_

Stokes dragged her into the room. It definitely wasn't max.

It was cold. One of the walls was lined with square metal doors, five across and two high, and in the middle of the room sat a table covered in a bloody sheet. Next to it sat a tray of metal instruments, the sight of which made Opal's blood run cold. She was in the morgue.

Opal suppressed a shudder, but couldn't prevent a whimper from escaping her mouth.

Stokes pushed her roughly towards the table, pressing her against its blood edge. "Stokes…" she heard Pike say, but it sounded distant, drowned out by the rush of blood in her ears.

Stokes smiled, holding her shaking body against his. "Take a look around, princess. This is where you're gonna end up. Sooner rather than later." His voice was gleeful. "See this bed here, you'll be all spread out on it, naked as the day you were born. Maybe I'll convince the Doc to let me have a play."

Opal retched.

Pike grimaced and looked vaguely sick. "Stokes, we gotta get going. It'll be your ass on the line if boss finds us in here."

Stokes growled at him. "Fuckin' pussy."

He grabbed Opal's arm, dragging her down the hallway. Pike trailed behind them.

The door to max was just a few twists and turns from the morgue. Opal hoped that wasn't by design.

Stokes dragged her into the wing, making sure to slam her face into the doorframe as he went. Opal's vision blackened for a moment and she tasted the sweet tang of blood.

She heard a woman's voice spit out, "Fucking pig." Stokes growled at the unseen woman, dragging Opal further down the hallway.

The wing was smaller than minimum or medium and Opal noticed both women and men in the cells she passed.

Co-ed. Miriam would be jealous, she thought with a smile.

"I don't know why you're smiling, princess. This ain't gonna be fun for you, I'll tell you that." Stokes grinned at her as they drew to the end of the hallway.

The three of them stopped at the very last cell, on the right side of the hall. Pike unlocked the barred-door, holding it open as Stokes shoved her in. He ripped the straightjacket off her, almost dislocating her arms in the process, before quickly leaving the cell. She wondered briefly if _he_ was scared of _her_.

Opal rested against the bars of her cell, barely able to stand, the pain and the drugs coursing through her body in equal measure.

Stokes grinned at her through the bars. Looking into his eyes, Opal saw an image of herself, spread out on that bloody table. She flinched back.

"Enjoy yourself, princess," Stokes jeered, turning back down the hallway.

Pike looked at her sadly, before leaning in close. "Just… don't make him angry, yeah?" He whispered. He gave her one last anxious look before following Stokes down the hallway.

Opal rested her head against the bars, trying to hold back her tears.

A low whistle caught her attention. "Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes. Come here often, beautiful?"

She looked up. Leaning up against the bars of the opposite cell, arms stretched above his head revealing the rippling muscles of his bare chest, was a man. Though perhaps _man_ wasn't the right word.

His pale skin almost glowed in the dim light of the cell, contrasting with the black tattoos that littered it; his green hair was slicked back, emphasizing the alien angles of his face. As he watched her, his mouth slid into a toothy grin, the dim light reflecting off his metal teeth.

 _Oh fuck._

Opal sank to her knees, her shaking legs unable to hold her any longer.

The man across from her let out a low, bone-chilling laugh. "While I appreciate the gesture, Doll, not much use getting on your knees for me with these bars in the way." He ran his tongue over the metal teeth and winked at her suggestively.

 _Oh fuck._

* * *

Opal wasn't sure exactly when she'd passed out. _God how embarrassing._ But she woke up, slumped against the bars of her cell, her face in agony where her bruises had been pressed against a rusty bar. She couldn't help letting out a low whine of pain. _Ugh, did she need to sound so weak?_

She risked a glance at the cell across from hers. He was sitting one the floor, legs splayed out, leaning back on his hands, staring straight at her. _Brilliant._

Opal felt like the weakest-link gazelle in a documentary about Nature's Greatest Predators. In a fight between the Joker and a lion, she'd place bets on the Joker.

"Rise and shine, Doll." A grin spread across his face, treacle-slow, revealing far too much gleaming metal. He pulled himself up, leaning against the bars of his cell and staring through at her with a terrifying intensity.

Opal pulled herself into a sitting position.

"I know I'm handsome man, but not many women pass out at the mere sight of me. You're gonna give me an ego." He drew a hand down his chest dramatically and Opal's eyes followed like they were on a wire.

He threw his head back, laughing.

Opal flinched. "It's the drugs," she choked out.

He tutted at her, mockingly. "Now, now, Daddy doesn't like liars."

He reached up, grabbing close to the top of one of the bars to emphasize his height, displaying his body like it was some work of art.

 _He's not wrong,_ she thought, her eyes roaming his bare chest. _Shit._ Definitely the drugs.

He chuckled lowly, as if he could hear her internal monologue, and licked his lips.

"Gotta love a woman who bruises pretty."

Opal squeezed her eyes shut. _Oh, she was so fucked._

"What's your name, Doll?"

She opened her eyes. Yep, still there. Still fucked.

He was staring at her, waiting for an answer. He didn't seem like the sort of man who enjoyed _waiting._

"Opal," she replied, hating how weak and breathy her voice sounded right now.

"Mhhhh," he hummed. "O, O, O, Ohhhhhhh," he moaned, fluttering his eyes shut, before snapping them open again. A stare that intense could start fires. His grin sent shivers down Opal's spine.

"Oh, Little O, we are going to be _such good friends._ "

* * *

It had taken a couple of days for the drugs to wear off. They'd returned to her usual pill-based prescription and she'd turned to her usual puke-based solution. She heard the Joker chuckling every time she retched behind that half-wall. The drugs didn't seem to affect him at all.

Her face was still swollen and bruised. She pressed her fingers into the tender spots sometimes, flinching at the pain. He laughed at that too.

Her fear of the Joker had given way to excitement and curiosity. Not because the Joker was any less scary, but because she'd realized there were two sets of bars between them. And because she was just _really_ _bored._

Max was different. Meals were delivered to their cells. Rec Room was a once-a-week affair and on a strict good-behaviour basis (and Opal had yet to be deemed "good"). There was no outside time. Opal had nearly cried when Pike told her that.

The Joker, as fucking terrifying as he was, was Opal's only source of entertainment for the foreseeable future.

Unfortunately for Opal, she was also the Joker's only source of entertainment. She imagined he must have been quite bored before she'd arrived, staring over at an empty cell. Now, instead, he stared over at her. _All the time._

It was quite disconcerting and, to be honest, she felt like a bit of a disappointment, like she should be doing something to actually _entertain_ him. She smirked at the thought.

"You've perked up, Doll." the Joker was leaning against the bars again. "What's got you so… _perky_?"

She grinned at him. "Your fabulous company, of course," she responded before she could regret it.

He put his hand to his heart in mocking gratitude. "Are you sweet-talking me, beautiful? I thought you said you _weren't_ crazy."

He bared his teeth at her and stretched his arms above his head in that move he always pulled to intimidate the guards.

Opal shook her head, forcing herself to look away.

One thing she'd learned about the Joker over the last couple of days was that he apparently had a vendetta against shirts, because his jumpsuit was always tied around his waist, exposing his chest. Or maybe he was just an exhibitionist.

Opal held in a sigh. She'd always had a thing for tattoos. This was so unreasonable.

* * *

Opal was a little shocked when Pike arrived at her cell door to take her to therapy. She hadn't had a session since the _incident_ and had honestly thought they were just leaving her rot.

She was excited, honestly, at the thought of some interaction. Therapy didn't sound nearly as terrible as it had when she'd first arrived. Isolation would do that to you.

Pike cuffed her and walked her slowly down the hall. "You're looking better," he told her. She raised an eyebrow at him, knowing her face was still a mess. He winced. "In general, I mean."

"Yeah," she responded. "I guess I didn't cope well with Solitary."

"The Joker… is he…" Pike didn't seem to know what to ask.

"He's fine," Opal said. "There's two sets of bars between us, what could he do?"

Pike "hmmm-ed," looking unconvinced, which Opal found a little alarming.

"Why are you being nice to me?" She asked after a moment of silence. They continued to wind their way down the grey hallways.

Pike avoided her eyes. "My job isn't to beat the shit out of you."

"Could you tell that to Stokes?" She grinned at him.

He didn't seem to find it funny and looked a little sick, if anything. Pike shook his head. "You're just so young," he said, directing her around another corner.

"Yeah, well," she responded. It wasn't like _he_ was that much older.

They stopped in front of yet another grey door. "Here we are. You'll be seeing Doctor Quinzel." Opal hadn't heard that name before.

Pike unlocked the door, leading Opal to the table. Attached to it was a pair of shackles. "Sorry," he told her. "Safety precautions."

Opal nodded. She couldn't exactly blame them.

Pike locked her into the shackles, giving her a pat on the shoulder. "The Doctor will be here soon," he told her, leaving her alone in the room.

Opal took a moment to bask in the weak sunlight filtering through the barred window. How long had it been since she'd felt the sun on her skin? It felt like heaven.

* * *

Dr. Quinzel was _beautiful._ That special kind of beautiful that you almost couldn't believe. The kind where you'd be envious if you weren't half-convinced you'd just met an angel. Opal had told her this and the Doctor had blushed.

"That's very kind of you, Opal," she'd said, with a smile that reached her eyes.

Her voice wavered slightly. She was nervous, clearly.

"I won't hurt you," Opal said, kindly. "Dr. Byrne was mean. You don't seem mean."

The Doctor smiled. "I try not to be."

They'd gone through all the usual intro stuff. The how have you been, how are your meds, are sleeping, are you eating. The Doctor was very concerned for her, which was sweet. Opal wasn't used to concern.

The Doctor had asked about her bruises. Opal said she'd fallen over. The Doctor asked how many times.

"So, Opal," she said, "you hear people's thoughts?"

Dr. Byrne had spent a grand total of five minutes covering the topic with her, before deciding she'd made up the whole thing.

Dr. Quinzel smiled at her, reassuringly.

"I'm not crazy," Opal told her.

"I didn't say you were," the Doctor replied.

"Any yet here I am," Opal said.

The Doctor nodded her head, smiling gently. "Here you are."

"I don't want to talk about it," Opal told her, staring down at her hands.

"Okay," the Doctor conceded, clearly not willing to push this early in the relationship. "Let's talk about something fun, then. Oooh!" She exclaimed, grinning at Opal. "What about boys? Was there anyone special before? I mean…"

She seemed to realize that could be a sensitive topic, what with Opal being locked up for the foreseeable _rest of her life._

Opal smiled kindly and nodded; the Doctor relaxed slightly. Boy-talk would be nice; she missed Miriam.

"Can I call you Dr. Q?" She asked and Dr. Q nodded.

"Did you have a boyfriend?" The Doctor asked.

"No," Opal shook her head. "There was this guy I used to mess around with, but it wasn't, like, a _thing,_ you know?"

Dr. Q nodded her head like she knew and Opal believed her.

"Tell me about him," the Doctor leaned forward, her attention entirely on Opal.

Opal smiled. "We worked at the grocery store together. He was kinda cute. Bleached hair, a few tattoos. Interesting."

Dr. Q nodded.

"He'd get all fake-deep sometimes, which was kind of annoying, but I could usually shut him up." Opal grinned raising her eyebrows suggestively.

The Doctor chuckled. "I'm sure you could."

Opal smiled at the vote of confidence.

"We used to work the same shift sometimes. After, I'd call Aunt Sue and say they'd asked me to stay late. I don't think she believed me. I think she was just glad I was being _normal_ for once. We'd go back to his place and, well, _you know._ "

"Did you like him?" Dr. Q asked.

Opal thought about it for a moment. "Kinda? I mean the sex wasn't great, not that I have much to compare it to. But you know, I can do better with my hand."

Dr. Q laughed at that. "Oh I have _been there._ "

Opal smiled; she almost felt like a normal girl.

"But it was nice to be close to someone. To make someone feel good."

Dr. Q nodded, a sad look on her face. Opal looked down at her hands.

"It turned out he had a girlfriend the whole time," Opal shrugged. "I didn't mind that much, but she definitely did. She came to the store while I was working and screamed at me in front of everyone. She called me a whore."

Dr. Q shook her head. "Why do people always blame the woman?" She sighed. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. I mean I was fucking her boyfriend. My manager sent me home early and I just cried for a bit." Opal shrugged her shoulders. "Pathetic, I know."

"It's not," Dr. Q told her. "Having feelings isn't pathetic."

Opal traced a pattern on the floor with her foot. "Aunt Sue said that's just what men do and you have to get over it. I guess that's why she married Ron, so she wouldn't have to worry about other women wanting him."

Dr. Q looked like she wanted to say something, but Opal continued.

"He quit the store after that. I think she made him. I never saw him again."

Dr. Q nodded. "Did you ever try to contact him?"

Opal shook her head. "I didn't want to look pathetic."

"You know," the Doctor said, "When you spend too much time worrying about how you'll be perceived, you miss out on being the person you actually want to be."

She sounded like she knew what she was talking about, so Opal nodded.

The Doctor smiled. "What was his name?"

Opal looked up Dr. Q, seeing the eager expression on her face. "Don't play games, with me Doc."

Dr. Q swallowed. "I'm not playing games, Opal. Were there any other guys?"

Opal shook her head. "No. I was always the weird kid and puberty hit me pretty late. Guys never really paid attention to me until my last year of school. Then I suddenly got tits and it was like I became an actual person." If she sounded bitter it's because she was. "I wasn't gonna give them the time after they ignored me all those years. I have _some_ dignity."

Dr. Q smiled. "Well, that's an important thing to have."

* * *

Opal was in a good mood when Pike walked her back to her cell.

"You know the worst thing about being in here, Pike?" She asked.

He raised an eyebrow at her and made a "hmmm" noise.

"I mean, aside from knowing I'll never have sex again for the rest of my life." She held in a chuckle as Pike cleared his throat and refused to look at her.

"It's knowing that I'll never taste chocolate again."

That made him look at her. "Chocolate? Really? That's what you miss the most?"

She nodded. "Hmmm. The way it's so sweet and creamy. And how it just _melts_ in your mouth." She closed her eyes, sighing deeply at the thought.

When she opened her eyes, Pike was staring at her, mouth slightly open. He jerked it shut and looked resolutely ahead.

Opal smirked. _Fuck dignity_.

* * *

"Making friends?" The Joker drawled at her after Pike had left. He raised a suggestive eyebrow.

Opal leaned against the bars of her cell, staring at him. "I'm bored," she defended herself, "This place is boring."

"Ah, ah, ah," the Joker wagged his finger in reproach. "Now we should appreciate what we have. In _my day_ we knew how to entertain ourselves." His smile widened and he swayed from side to side, eyeing her up.

He gave her that special grin that sent chills down her spine. Not the good kinds of chills.

"Let play a _game._ "


	4. I Was Here

Note: sorry this took so long to get out – a combination of exams, travel, crazy-busy summer job, and a semester abroad (which primarily consisted of travel and alcohol) killed my free-time. Hopefully updates will be quicker from here on. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed – it's a really great motivation to get more writing done!

* * *

 _Opal avoided eyes. She would look at noses, mouths, chests, feet, but not the eyes. Never the eyes. When the guards brought her food, she stared at the ceiling. When Pike walked her to therapy, she gazed bashfully at the ground. In therapy, she watched Dr. Quinzel's mouth religiously. But not the eyes. Never the eyes._

 _The eyes told her things she didn't want to know. Or things she already knew but needed to forget._

 _She'd always wondered, were eyes a window to the soul or a mirror?_

* * *

Opal lay on the thin mattress of her rusted bed, her threadbare grey blanket doing little to protect her from the chill of the concrete walls, as she listened to the wails and chatter of the other inmates. They had been louder since the Joker was sent to solitary.

It had been quiet down here before, in their little corner at the end of the hall. The two cells next to them on either side of the corridor, empty. Opal suspected the Joker had been placed here, alone at the end of the corridor, in an attempt to keep him isolated from other inmates. An attempt to avoid trouble.

Except, with her, they wanted trouble. It was a punishment for Byrne. They wanted her scared. Well she was certainly scared: it was overwhelming, exhilarating, intoxicating. _Had she really been alive all these years?_

The Joker's _game_ had left at least two guards dead; if the third had survived, Opal doubted he would ever walk again. Their weapons and body armour had meant nothing against the Joker's sheer animal strength and wicked desire to cause pain.

The images replayed in her head, over and over. The rippling muscles, blood dripping down his face and chest, the wicked grin he'd given her before finally being overpowered by a team of eight guards. She gulped, her throat feeling like sandpaper. Two sets of bars no longer felt like a safe haven. _Did she mind?_

Opal turned over violently. She couldn't stand this fucking bed. The open space of her cell agitated her, the dim emergency lights failing to illuminate the darkened corners. She'd never believed in monsters before. _Hadn't she?_

She wondered how her blood would look speckling his face. Blood, she remembered blood. She remembered it trickling down her arms. She remembered the warm rush as it poured down her legs, soaking her feet. _A bathtub…_

Blood didn't frighten her. What scared her was that, when he had looked into her eyes, face bloody and wet, when he had stared her down for that moment that had seemed to last a lifetime, she had heard nothing. Silence.

The one person she _wanted_ to hear and he was silent.

Deciding she couldn't take it any more, as cackling laughter echoed in the hallway, Opal dragged the thin sheets off her bed, crawling beneath its rusted wire frame. She pressed her face to the cold concrete floor, swearing she could smell bleach.

* * *

He'd been gone a week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. Ten thousand and eighty minutes. Give or take. She done the math.

It was strange to miss someone she barely knew, someone who could snap her neck on a whim or paint the walls with her blood and a smile. Still, she couldn't stop thinking about him.

Opal remembered the solitary, the padded walls and the drugs, and wondered how many holes he had now. Did they give him water?

She started, drawn from her thoughts, as the door opened and Dr. Quinzel entered the therapy room. Opal quickly turned away to stare out of the barred window, pointedly refusing to look at the doctor.

Dr. Quinzel sighed. "How are you doing today, Opal?"

Opal shrugged, still refusing to look at the doctor.

"Is something wrong, Opal? Please talk to me."

She sounded sad and Opal felt a wave of guilt. She didn't want to make someone as kind as Dr. Q sad. Opal turned to look at the doctor and couldn't held but smile a little. In a place as dark and dank as Arkham, Dr. Quinzel shone like the sun. The doctor returned her smile and Opal quickly returned to her previous stony face. She was upset and wanted the doctor to know it.

The doctor tilted her head, curiously.

Opal rolled her eyes as her expression broke. "I'm bored," Opal told her, pouting. "They took the Joker away and now I have no one to talk to all day."

Dr. Q's forehead wrinkled with a look of concern.

"The two of you talked?"

Opal rolled her eyes. "Of course. Our cells are opposite. He's interesting." She kept her voice clipped but couldn't bring herself to put too much anger into the words.

"He is. Interesting, I mean," Dr. Q said, almost wistfully. "You know, I used to have quite the fascination with the Joker."

Opal looked up at her sharply. She hadn't expected that. Why would sweet Dr. Quinzel be interested in someone like the Joker?

"But life has a way of throwing curve balls at us. Sometimes, the person we think we are is just a story we've been telling ourselves. Sometimes, what we really want is very different than what we always thoug…" The doctor cut herself off, blushing. "Sorry, Opal," she giggled nervously. "This is your session, not mine."

"I don't mind, doc," Opal told her, leaning forward curiously.

"No. That was unprofessional of me. I would really like to return to the session, Opal." Her tone booked no argument and Opal scowled in annoyance.

"You should be careful with him, Opal," the doctor told her, softly. "You saw what he did…"

Opal looked away again, annoyed. "I don't want to talk about it."

Dr. Q thought for a minute, then nodded. "All right, Opal. I want to talk about your aunt and uncle today."

There was a hardness to her statement that hung in the air; a sort of determination. It wasn't the express threat of Dr. Byrne, but it was there. Opal felt a stab of anger at the doctor before taking a deep breath. _It's her job. It's her job._ She wasn't like Byrne.

"Please, Opal."

Opal refused to look at the doctor, staring at her hands instead. "What do you want to know?"

"Do you regret what you did to them?"

 _Wow, going in hard, Dr. Q._ "No," she said. Opal didn't raise her eyes, didn't see Dr. Q's reaction, didn't want to.

There was a moment of silence. "Tell me about them," the doctor asked.

Opal clenched her jaw before looking up finally. Dr. Q's expression was open and earnest. "I just want to know about them, Opal. How you saw them. Describe them to me."

"Fine." Opal shifted in her seat. "They were a fucking weird couple. I guess they settled, since no one else would have them. Sue smoked more than she ate; always thought the neighbours were stealing our mail. Ron didn't really talk. I don't know much about him, I guess."

"You lived with them for ten years."

Opal's foot tapped out a bruising pattern on the floor. "He didn't like kids." Opal turned her face back to the sun.

"What was it like when you went to live with them?" The doctor's words were soothing and kind.

Opal felt anything but soothed. She drank in the sunlight while Dr. Q waited, silently.

"I don't remember much. It was okay. They never wanted kids," she mumbled. _She remembered hiding under her bed, hidden by the yellow bed-skirt, trying to forget the smell of blood and the feel of silky red hair in her hands._

"Did they fight much?" Dr. Q asked, pulling Opal from her thoughts.

Opal shook her head. "No. They weren't like mom and dad. When they were angry they'd just get really quiet and Ron would go out." _She remembered the heavy, suffocating air and slammed doors and silence._ "Once he left for a week. When he came back they pretended like nothing had happened." Dr. Q nodded, jotting something on the paper. Opal dug her nails harshly into the palm of her hand, wishing they were longer, sharper.

"That must have been hard. How did it make you feel?"

Opal shrugged. "I didn't feel anything." She knew her voice sounded empty. _Nothing, she felt nothing._

The doctor sighed. "Did they take good care of you?" When Opal looked confused, she elaborated. "Did they feed you, send you to school, give you clean clothes?"

Opal nodded. "Oh, yeah, they did all that. They took care of me."

"Did they every hurt you? Physically or otherwise?"

Opal shook her head, "Never". The doctor looked at her for a long moment, as though assessing whether or not to believe Opal's words, before nodding again, jotting in her notepad.

"They never hurt me. Not once," Opal restated, unsure of why she felt such a strong need to defend them on this point. _They were a lot of things, but not that._ "Are we nearly done?" she asked.

"Just a few more questions," the doctor told her. "Did you feel emotionally secure with them?"

Opal stared down at her hands. "I don't know what that means."

Dr. Quinzel gave her a sad look. "It must have been hard for you, that transition, especially after losing you parents. Did your aunt and uncle make you feel safe? Did they make you feel loved?"

Opal squinted at the doctor, still confused. "They weren't my mom and dad. That wasn't their job."

Dr. Q gave her that sad look again. It was full of pity and Opal attempted to hold back the rage. She wasn't weak and she didn't need anyone's pity.

"I don't like it when you look at me like that," she told the doctor. "It was fine."

"Do you miss them at all?"

Opal rolled her eyes, tired of the pointless questions. "Just ask what you really want to ask, Doc," she bit out, a vicious grin forming on her face. She took some satisfaction from Dr. Q's look of alarm. "Come on, _ask me why I did it_." She grinned widely at the Doctor, baring her teeth.

Dr. Q leaned it, all softness gone, replaced by a look of intense curiosity. "Why did you do it, Opal?"

Opal leaned forward, conspiratorially, as if she were about to share an important secret. She held the moment, dragging it out, enjoying the feeling of power thick in the air. " _Because I could_ ," she whispered, giving a delighted giggle.

Dr. Q leaned back sharply, giving her a disappointed again. "I don't believe that."

Opal rested back in her chair, palms smarting where her short nails had carved grooves into the skin. _Believe what you want._

The doctor paused, gazing at Opal assessing. Opal could see she was working her way up to something and held in the urge to scream just _spit it out_.

"I want to talk about the bathtub," the Doctor said.

Opal's blood ran cold.

"Please, Opal, I'm trying to help you."

"I don't need your FUCKING HELP! I'M NOT CRAZY!" Opal strained in her shackles, kicking up her legs and leaning forward, snapping her teeth at the Doctor.

Dr. Q jumped out of her seat, backing up towards the door.

"That'll be all for today, Opal." The strain was clear in her voice. She opened the door to leave, pausing for a moment before turning back to look at Opal. "I really am just trying to help you."

* * *

Opal was lying under her bed again. The guards had given up trying to make her sleep in her bed and, as long as they could see her feet or a hand to tell she was still there, didn't give a shit where she slept.

She felt more than heard the hush that descended over the wing, the guards' footsteps and the creaking dolly wheels echoing in the silence. Opal crawled from under the bed, catching her shoulder on a broken spring and wincing as she felt blood flow down the side of her neck. She didn't care, though, wiping it away with the back of her hand.

She peered through the bars, trying to see down the hallway and grinned at the sight. The Joker was strapped to a dolly, wrapped in a straight jacket, with a spit guard over his head. _Impressive._

As the dolly creaked to a halt in front of her cell, Opal couldn't help but give him a wide grin. _Welcome back_ , she mouthed, not wanting to draw the guards' attention to her. Watching them wrestle the Joker into his cell and out of his straightjacket was a long and some-what comical process involving a coterie of nine guards armed with machine guns.

Opal couldn't help but giggle which drew a grin from the Joker's swollen and blackened face. She was a little jealous, to be honest, of the security measures he occasioned. Opal wished she was dangerous enough to need strapping up like that.

Once the guards had locked his cell and walked away Opal couldn't help but share that with the Joker.

He raised a non-existent eyebrow, barely identifiable through the swollen mess of his face. "How many of your fantasies involved being tied up, Doll?" He grinned at her violent blush.

"Just a few," she told him, unable to help herself from teasing back. _God, she'd been bored._

He growled at her and her grin grew.

"I missed you," she told him, disregarding any semblance of dignity. She didn't care when he didn't respond.

Opal couldn't help but stare as he reacquainted himself with his cell. Every movement was so animated, every gesture so grand and broad, every word out of his mouth so rich and emotive. His wild eyes flashed and his face contorted into a mockery of pleasantness as he sized her up. Opal had never met anybody so _alive_.

"How was solitary? Have a lot of time to think about what you did?" She asked, unable to handle the extensive silence.

He hummed deeply in response. "Oh I thought about it. _A lot._ " He dragged a hand down his chest to rest just above his crotch.

Opal shuddered a little at his suggestive tone before rolling her eyes at him.

"You're terrible. No wonder they stuck you in here."

He really did laugh at that, hard and long, raising a tattooed hand to cover his mouth, replacing it with a grin that was somehow even more deranged. Opal shuddered a little.

"Oh, Little O, you have _no idea._ "

* * *

Having the Joker back had been great. Opal had nearly gone mad in the time the Joker had been away in solitary (and maybe that was their plan – turn her crazy since they already had her in here). He was like her; he needed stimulation, entertainment. She wasn't sure how he had even survived before, facing into the empty cell.

They'd developed a system of sorts, to keep each other entertained. The Joker told her stories. He told her about killings, dramatic schemes, and general gangland going-ons. Some of his stories were gruesome beyond belief, but others were so funny she swore her sides would split.

The Joker certainly had a flare for the dramatic and it showed in his story-telling. Opal wasn't sure how much of it was _true,_ but it was interesting nonetheless. Sometimes he'd teach her things. A recipe for cyanide here, instructions on making a bomb there. He told her the best methods of torture, how to turn a man inside out, and even how to disable the average home alarm. She swore she'd learned more from him than she'd ever learned at school.

Opal didn't have any interesting stories of her own and doubted she could teacher the Joker a single thing, but what she did have was a lifetime as a friendless nerd: she'd watched more movies and read more books than she could count. Who needed to leave the house when there was another world to discover? Someone else to live through?

As it turned out, being a super villain left little time for the consumption of popular culture, so Opal had little difficulty finding new stories to entertain the Joker.

She'd started by telling him the gruesome stories, plots to horror movies and real crime documentaries. She'd act bits out to make it more interesting, playing different characters, changing voices, falling to the floor in convulsions. He liked that. When she'd run out of horror she'd had to resort to other genres. He didn't seem to mind too much, so long as she kept it entertaining.

A lot of the time she forgot parts of the stories, or revealed things too soon, her mind too scattered to follow a linear story. Eventually she started making her own changes, keeping it fresh for herself. He didn't seem to mind the slight incoherence of the stories. If he did, he didn't let on.

She'd barely been able to keep in her giggles when she'd revealed that Darth Vader was Luke's mother.

"Vader is Dutch for _father_ ," he'd told her with a tilted head.

She'd shrugged her shoulders. "Told you there was a twist."

She'd moved onto musicals recently, as the Joker didn't seem to mind her less-than-angelic voice. Today she was performing parts of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, though in her version Chitty was a transformer, grandpa was a Nazi war criminal, and Truly was a half-decomposed zombie. It was one of her more eccentric creations, but she was having fun with it.

" _You see a doll on a music box that's wound by a key. How can you tell_ …" she raised her hands above her head, twirling "… _I'm under a spell. I'm waiting for love's first kiss._ " She twirled on one foot, almost falling over. " _You cannot see, how much I long to be free. Turning around on this music box that's wound by a key…_ "

This time she actually did fall, banging her head sharply against one of the bars.

The Joker clapped loudly and she glared out at him, but nevertheless raised herself up, wavering with dizziness, and performed a curtsy. It was nice to be centre stage for once rather than playing a fucking _tree_ for the third year in a row. _Should've killed that bitch Ms. Fisher too._

She grinned at him. "Tune in Tuesday for the next episode. Will Truly and Grandpa finally give into their forbidden lust and christen poor Chitty?" she asked in her deep presenter voice, before letting lose a giggle.

"Now I'm looking forward to _that_ episode," the Joker leered at her.

Opal rolled her eyes and lay down on the cold floor, resting her throbbing head. "It's your turn now," she told him. "I want a story."

* * *

Opal wrung out her wet hair, rubbing through it with the fraying grey towel. Shower time was one of her favourite parts of the day (though she should say week, since she was only taken for showers three times a week). In minimum, they'd all showered together every morning under the watchful eye of mustache-Nazi-lady, as Miriam had called her. In Max, inmates (sorry "patients") were taken to shower individually, escorted by two guards, so as to avoid any confrontation.

Today, Opal had been escorted by Silva, one of the few female guards, who came into the shower room to creepily watch her (which was more the fault of the administration than Silva, who wasn't bad as far as guards went), and Pike who had to wait outside on-call should there be any incidents. Opal revelled in her last few seconds of peace in the grungy shower room with its cracked tiles and molding corners, sighing in contentment. She always liked to drag her feet at shower time and was constantly getting in trouble for taking more than her allowed time.

Silva checked her watch and raised her eyebrows. "Come on, I have things to do. You can't stay in here all day."

Opal wanted to pout and stamp her foot and say _can too,_ but decided it was better not to get on Silva's bad side. Once dressed in a fresh(ish) uniform, her damp hair wetting her back, cuffs back on, the two women exited the room and Opal gave Pike a blinding smile, which he returned sweetly.

"Didn't you have a thing with your kid?" Pike asked Silva, nodding his head towards the clock on the wall.

Silva sighed. "Guess I'm gonna be late. Again."

Pike smiled at her. "I think I can return this one to her cell by myself." Opal's eyebrows shot up. _That_ was definitely against protocol. "She's been very compliant and we have a rapport. Don't worry about it, Maria. Your kids should come first."

Silva sighed, looking between Pike and Opal. "Shit. Okay. You better not cause any trouble." She pointed a finger at Opal.

Opal smiled sweetly at her. "I'd never cause trouble for Pike. He's nice to me."

Silva looked at her for a moment, uncertain, before nodding her head. She turned to Pike. "Text me once she's back in her cell, so I know everything's okay." She turned back to Opal. "If I don't get that text in ten minutes, I'm calling security." She nodded at Pike again before striding quickly down the hallway.

"How old are her kids?" Opal asked Pike.

"Well, the little one is… I probably shouldn't tell you." He looked at the floor. "We aren't supposed to share personal information. Not safe, you see."

Opal nodded. "Fair enough."

She held in a shudder as they passed the morgue.

They walked the hallways in a semi-comfortable silence, but Opal noticed that Pike was chewing his lip. She knew him well enough by now to know that something was up. "What's wrong?" she asked him.

"Nothing," he blurted out, before looking around conspiratorially. "I um, I got you a gift," he almost whispered. He took her arm, pulling her around the corner, positioning them carefully to the side of a doorframe and beside a metal cabinet. He carefully checked their position again. "This is a dead spot for the cameras," he told her, pulling a package out of his pocket. It was a chocolate bar.

Opal grinned at him widely. "Really? For me?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "But you, uh, you can't tell anyone. And you have to unwrap it here, 'cause if anyone finds the wrapper in your cell they'll know and I'll be done for."

Opal nodded. "I won't tell. Cross my heart!" She eyed the chocolate hungrily and cursed the fact that her hands were cuffed.

"I'll um unwrap it and put it in your pocket? So you can eat it in your cell? Do it in the dark though! And be quiet about it."

"I will. I promise!" Opal exclaimed already thinking about the creamy chocolate melting in her mouth. "Could you give me one piece now, just put it in my mouth? I can't wait any longer. Pleasssseeee?" She begged, batting her eyelashes at him.

Pike blushed a little, but unwrapped the chocolate bar, breaking a piece off and placing the rest gently in her pocket, his fingers skimming her thigh. Opal looked up at him through her lashes and opened her mouth sticking her tongue out slightly. Pike cleared his throat and she could hear his breathing quicken. He gently placed the piece of chocolate on her tongue, his fingers brushing her lips.

Opal closed her mouth around the chocolate, her eyes rolling back, and moaned lowly. After bland asylum food, this single piece of chocolate was like a dose of heroin. When she had swallowed it all down, she looked back up to Pike who was staring at her with wide eyes and red-dusted cheeks.

"Thank you, Sir," she said, gazing deeply into his eyes.

Pike licked his lips before jumping slightly, as though released from a trance. He stepped back from Opal. "Yes, um. We should get going. Silva will have a fit if I don't text her in time."

Pike was silent for the rest of the short walk to her cell, though he kept glancing over to Opal when he thought she wouldn't notice. Opal, for her part, felt the chocolate bar burning a hole in her pocket and she wanted it _now._ She briefly remembered Dr. Byrne saying something about her issues with impulse control and couldn't help but grin a little.

When they got back to the cell, Pike let her in and locked her back up wordlessly, leaving her with a long gaze and a sweet smile, which Opal returned.

Once Pike had turned and left down the hallway, Opal turned to look at the Joker, who had been leaning against his bars, staring her down the whole time. "Tut, tut, little O. You shouldn't go playing with boys hearts. It's bound to end _badly._ " He slammed his arm against the bars at the last word, causing them to rattle. Opal internally rolled her eyes, used to his theatrics.

"Oh hush, I got you a present." She took the chocolate bar, slightly squashed and a little lint-y from her pocket and broke it in two. Leaning up against the bars she reached her arm out and carefully tossed the smaller half across the hall and through the Joker's bars. She quickly checked down the hallway to make sure nobody had seen before pumping her fist. "I'm a good shot, huh?"

The Joker chuckled a little, his intimidating stance lessening a little. "I was never much one for sweets," he told her, picking up the chocolate.

Opal frowned at him. "You told me you liked sweet things!"

He grinned at her slowly and swiped his tongue over his shiny metal teeth. "I wasn't talking about food, Doll."

Opal blushed a little and actually did roll her eyes this time. "Oh, just eat the chocolate. You can pretend its me," she teased before cringing a little. She didn't know why he brought out this side of her. She never would have said something like that to any other man. Except maybe Pike, if it would get her more chocolate.

The Joker laughed for real this time, raising his tattooed hand to cover his mouth, which he knew disconcerted Opal.

"Careful, Doll. You're making me _hungry._ "

* * *

He was in one of his quiet moods, sat on his bed staring straight forward. Opal called for him but he hadn't responded. He'd been like this for hours. It happened sometimes, after his sessions with Dr. Leland.

Opal got the feeling that Dr. Leland and Dr. Quinzel had different approached to therapy.

"Joker? Joker? Jokey? Jojo? J? JJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJ?" she called out, eliciting no response. Opal hated being ignored. _Am I here?_

She banged her head against the iron bar, enjoying the shot of pain and dizziness. She felt her heartrate increase, as adrenaline pumped through her veins.

She hit her head again. Again. Again. Until she could barely see straight and she dropped to her knees, panting harshly and resting against the bars. In that moment she was so _free._ She was nothing, she was everything.

Until he had to ruin it with his signature laugh.

She glared up at him from where she kneeled, her vision black at the corners and wavering in the centre.

He was resting up against the bars again, staring through at her with that piercing look.

She felt a swell of pride that she'd made him pay attention to her and bared her teeth at him through the bars. He grinned back, metal teeth gleaming.

"You're a real hoot, Doll. You might wanna reassess that "not crazy" diagnosis, though."

"I'm not crazy," she told him, knowing there was no force to her words. She was still breathing heavily and licked at her lips as she felt blood drip from her forehead, down her face.

He mimicked her almost unconsciously, drawing his tongue across his bottom lip. Opal's eyes followed hungrily.

" _HA HA HA."_

Opal giggled in response, realizing how ridiculous the situation was. She rubbed at the blood with her hand, before realizing she was just spreading it across her face. He growled and pressed himself tighter against the bars and Opal felt a burst of heat in her chest.

"What would you do to her? If you could?" Opal asked. He knew who she meant, of course. He always knew what she meant.

She loved the grin that spread across his face, the way his body vibrated against the bars, muscles coiled, ready to pounce. She felt the blood thrumming hungrily in her veins. _I am here._


End file.
